


family happiness

by lonesome



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Voyeurism, Will Graham Hates Himself, couple's counseling only works when the counselor is not also in the relationship, handies from bestfrandies, hannibal thinks he's wonderful, murder boners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonesome/pseuds/lonesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i think about doing a lot of things to you, doctor lecter.<br/>i would very much like to hear about them.</p><p>will tells hannibal about the different ways he's imagined killing him, and gets aroused, much to his horror & disgust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	family happiness

How would you do it, Hannibal asks him quietly.  
  
With my hands, Will says in an equal tone.  
  
Hannibal watches him for a moment, trying to read his face. There is plenty of emotion there, all of it glorious. He allows Will this ambiguity for the night, and they move onto another subject. The choice is in part because he doesn’t want to know, in that moment, he would rather keep these fantasies will has a secret, so that they can build, and so that he can be surprised should they come out.   
  
He loses patience for that sometime during the next week. He is at his desk and Will has his back to him, looking at the bookshelves. He does this frequently, now, as if convincing himself he is a predator in his own, and does not need to be afraid of being in the same room as Hannibal. The good doctor finds this development quite pleasing, in all honesty, and so he makes no statement on it. He’s hoping Will continues, and becomes more comfortable with what he is.  
  
“You said you would kill me with your hands.”   
  
Will is taken off-guard by the statement, and turns to look at him carefully. “I did.”  
  
“How would you kill me with your hands?” Will’s head tilts down then, he looks away. This question has that familiar doctor tone, when Hannibal is going to try to see into his head, to read into his thoughts, and so Will folds his hands into his pockets and walks over to his chair. That’s where these conversations take place.   
  
“I think about doing a lot of things to you, Doctor Lecter.” That is accidentally too honest, and he refuses eye contact. Hannibal is intrigued immediately. He takes his own seat across from Will.  
  
“I would very much like to hear about them.”  
  
“I think about beating you to death. Hitting you until you’re on the ground and then I just—keep going.” He glances at Hannibal, who is listening intently.   
  
“Close your eyes, and imagine hitting me.” Will’s eyes slide shut. “What do you see?”  
  
“I see my hand make contact. You’re smiling.” Will’s annoyed by that, and it comes off in his voice, how his jaw clenches at the word, but Hannibal isn’t. Hannibal has no doubt that he would be smiling, were Will to lose his control and let his inner animal loose, even if it were let loose on him. “Your lip cuts on your teeth and you start to bleed from your mouth, your nose. The sounds get wet, my hand is starting to hurt. I cut my knuckles and keep going.”   
  
As he sees all of this—the blood, the feeling of Hannibal underneath him, the feeling of driving his nose back into his face, of skin getting bruised and bloody—Will feels dominance. He feels powerful. There’s a deep, buried hostile energy frothing now, it’s coming up to the surface and starting to pull at the seams. His voice is no longer detached, he nearly spits out the words, “I want to hit you until you can’t smile like that anymore.”  
  
That’s when he notices, because the sound of his own voice jars him a little. It’s dark and sounds almost like someone else. They both notice that. What only Will is privy to is that his dick actually twitches in his pants. He frowns, and blinks his eyes open. This isn’t right.  
  
Hannibal doesn’t let him stop. “Keep going, Will. Where does this fantasy take you?”  
  
“I—“ The profiler swallows, lets his eyes close again. “Your head moves back each time I punch you, you keep turning it to look at me. There’s bruises that are already starting to form, but you keep turning your head. You’re not even fighting back. I—“ Will stops again. He’s starting to sound a little breathless, which he could possibly pass off as just feeling the exhilaration of beating a man to death, getting lost in his own head. Blood is starting to rush down, though, and he might not be able to hide that for long, if this continues.  
  
“Will.”  
  
“I don’t stop hitting you until you’re  _ **still**_ ,” Will says in what is as close to a growl as is humanly possible, and his cock jumps. He can feel it starting to strain. The blood flow does not stop. He’s fucked.  
  
This time Will does not open his eyes and just stays silent. They are both silent for a while. There’s a blush creeping up his neck.  
  
Hannibal speaks next, softly, in a tone that is almost chiding. “ _Will,_ ” he says, as one would say to a child that ate all the Halloween candy and made themselves sick.   
  
Will wants to go find a hole somewhere and die. He bites into his cheek and leans so that he can bury his face in his hand. The other one clenches against the armrest.  
  
“Has it been a long time since you’ve touched yourself?”  
  
He does not answer. Hannibal does not repeat himself, and simply waits. They stay in silence for a few seconds before Will has to admit it. He does so in a whisper.  
  
“No.”   
  
“Have you touched yourself when thinking about killing me?”  
  
“It’s not like that.” He can feel, even without opening his eyes, that Hannibal inclines his head as he does when he thinks someone’s evading or not being truthful, and he’s about to cut through them—so the profiler clarifies. “I—dreamed about tying you to a tree. And constricting the ropes, until you…” He’s still hard and at this point it’s straining against his jeans, and probably very obvious. “I woke up with an erection. That was the only time, I didn’t think it was connected.”   
  
To be fair it had been a while at that point, since he hadn't felt all that hot and bothered in prison. Not with the distinct possibility that Chilton would listen in the minute he made a sound.  
  
“What do you think now?”  
  
“I think I should leave.”  
  
“Does your physical reaction to such violent thoughts frighten you?”  
  
Will takes a shuddering breath, and hisses, “Yes.”  
  
“What about it frightens you?”  
  
“It’s wrong. This isn’t a sexual crime, I’m not— _this_ —is not me.” He’s seen killers that have sexual components to their crimes.   
  
Hannibal follows his train of thought. “Killers with sexual motives often choose to kill their victims in ways that are more intimate. They rarely use guns, because it is too impersonal.”  
  
“I don’t have sexual motives.”  
  
“And yet here you are, aroused.” Will flinches. “You said it would feel righteous to kill me. You wish to have power over me, as I took power from you. But you have never been more powerful than you are now, rising from the rubble of the restrictions imposed upon you. Becoming as you were meant to be.”  
  
Will laughs bitterly, desperately, and peeks from behind his hand at Hannibal. His eyes are full of pain and hate and self-loathing. “Take a look at the person I’ve turned into and tell me you still like it.”  
  
The profiler takes pause as he sees a torrent of admiration, fascination, hunger, obsession, in those bright maroon eyes. Light flickers in them and is swallowed by the abyss that is each pupil. He watches with a settling feeling of dread. “You are a beautiful person, William.” _This man will eat my soul_.  
  
“I don’t want to be  _this_ , what you’ve  _brought out **in**_  me. This is sick.”  
  
“If you are only aroused when you think of killing me, then perhaps it is more with the specific subject, rather than being an overarching theme for the act of killing itself.”  
  
“That would please you, wouldn’t it?”   
  
“Perhaps as much as it would please you,” Hannibal answers, perhaps too cruelly, because dear Will flinches again. The doctor leans forward in his chair. “Are these the only fantasies you’ve had of killing me?”  
  
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”  
  
“Tell me another.” Will thinks about making a run for the door, but he stays where he is, and closes his eyes again.  
  
“I wrap my hands around your neck—“  
  
“No, Will,” Hannibal says, and the younger man looks up. “Undo your belt.”  
  
Will swallows. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Touch yourself.” He just stares. “You will never work through this feeling if you repress it.” So he takes a long inhale through his nose, and then reaches for his belt. His hands are shaking a little, which might be fear or nerves, he’s not sure. The erection is still there but not as hard as it was during the first fantasy he shared. Will’s hand slides down his underwear and he takes himself in his hand, strokes once long and dry. It hurts a little, and he grits his teeth.  
  
There’s a soft sigh that escapes him when he closes his eyes and starts over. “I wrap my hands around your neck, and I squeeze.” He wishes he had started with this one, so that he wouldn’t have to think about the words and other uses for them. His cock is filling out with blood again embarrassingly fast. “I squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze. I hold you— _aah_ —against the wall. And you’re smiling again. So  _fucking_  proud.”  
  
“Language, William,” Hannibal says in his ear and Will jumps, his hand accidentally tugs harder and he gasps. Lecter is standing behind him. When did he move?  
  
“Your hands don’t even move to stop me, they—they just rest on my arms, or brush against my neck gently. You’re pleased with how I’ve  _performed_  under your guidance.” The dryness is becoming less of a problem, as he runs his thumb over the slit and notices precum leaking already, starting to slick the way.   
  
“In each of these you see me as approving, and it aggravates you. That you have become something that you condemn as monstrous, in your mind, and that I would call it divinity.” There’s a hand on his neck now, and it’s gentle, just like in the fantasy, moving to cup his face and hold him lovingly. “Might you crave my approval, sweet Will?”   
  
He tries very hard not to open his eyes as he feels Hannibal hold his face, feels the fingers trace lightly against the skin just below his jawline—but Hannibal whispers, “remarkable boy,” with such reverence that Will bucks into his hand and his eyes open of their own accord. Will’s head has been tilted back by Hannibal’s hand and so he can see Lecter standing, looking down to watch Will stroke himself.   
  
Their eyes meet and Will sees the look of something that wants to consume him, mind, body, and soul.   
  
And he moans.   
  
He’s tugging himself more earnestly now, and bucking his hips every few strokes. “I feel your trachea under my thumb. Your face is going red, and your eyes are starting to water.” Then another hand pulls his away, and replaces it, and Will cries out before he can hold the sound back. He knows how to pleasure himself, but he’s so close and Hannibal’s hand feels so much better, because it’s not something he can so easily predict, and he’s clenched it tight around his cock.   
  
“Your mind is so beautiful, and the way you suffer for it. You view your own mentality as grotesque—a burden. But  _I can help you bear it._ ” Lecter’s thumb swipes over the head and he twists his hand a little, and Will is moaning again.  
  
He barley manages to get the words out between the sounds he’s making and the shallow breaths. “I can feel as your life leaves you, I can feel it through my hands on your throat.” Hannibal rewards his efforts with a faster pace, and Will bucks up into his hand, leaking a lot at this point. He’s so close.   
  
“You must allow yourself to indulge in your darker urges, and cultivate them as the inspirations they are.”  
  
“Oh  _god_ , please—fuck!” Hannibal does not care about language anymore—in fact he never did, he just wanted to see poor Will jump.  
  
“You seek my approval because you know that no one else would see this darkness and accept it, as I do, to be the best of you. They would all condemn you for it. They already have.” His hand is going faster and Will can barely stand it, he is gasping and practically writhing in the chair as each stroke sends a current of pleasure down his spine, deep in his gut. “They are all  _fools._ ” He says it with such contempt, and twists his hand cruelly. Will moans, his head pushed back and eyebrows knotted together.  
  
“What are you trying to  _do_  to me,” he manages to choke out, before he’s pushed over the edge and comes, in a wave of white hot pleasure which rips through his entire body. Hannibal strokes him gently through, whispering endearments in a language he can’t understand.   
  
Lecter leaves and comes back with a wet washcloth to clean him up—(where did that come from?)—and they are quiet as Will tries to recover. He’s sweating, at some point that must have happened, and every muscle in his body feels relaxed. His stomach feels sick. He feels sick. He looks at Hannibal and Hannbal looks at him, entirely pleased, and Will thinks,  _I’m sick_.   
  
He will not escape, not from this. He’s been changed, and Hannibal’s changed him, and he’ll never get his old self back. He is not innocent. He is not a good man. His resolve is breaking, even after he was so sure he could hold onto his hatred. He looks at Hannibal and wants to kill him, and then desperately does not want to kill him.  
  
As if sensing all this, Hannibal smirks at him in the way he always does, each time Will kills him in his head, so proud of what he has brought out in him. He smirks and then kisses Will’s forehead gently, whispers,  _mylimasis_.  
  
Will feels at once that if there is any death between them, it will be his.

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos are always appreciated. i try to reply to them when i can. it's been a long time since i wrote a thing, so here's this, a prompt i filled on the kinkmeme (i sometimes post things there as an anon, and only occasionally transfer over to here). this is a one shot. won't be continued.
> 
> i recycled/rehashed a line from my last (possibly?? still ongoing??) fic. and i love that line. i basically want it to appear in the show. so maybe that's just a line that somehow wiggles it's way into every one of my fics, like a calling card. would that be obnoxious of me??


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